Tell Me What You See
by Naturelover422
Summary: After being referred to as 'fat' on more than one occasion, a miserable and insecure John reacts with a drastic form of self-punishment. What happens when discreet not to mention harmful antics blatantly unfold in the open and things fail to turn out as planned? Set in 1965. Rated T for language. Contains lotsa friendship and love 'cause in the end, love is all you need.
1. I'm a Loser

A/N: Yet another angst-filled story involving my all-time favorite Beatle. Yikes. You guys are going to hate me if ya don't already... but yeahh you'll get over it ;). BESIDES, there will be lots of love and comfort to balance it out.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles...blah blah blah... If I did, they'd all be alive today and would have killed me off a long time ago. Yup.

**A/N: Did some tweaking like I said I would. Re-read if ya want or calmly await the next chapter which I'm ashamed to say is just getting underway.**

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_"When 'Help!' came out. I was actually crying out for help. Most people think it's just a fast rock and roll song... but later, I knew I was really crying out for help. You see the movie: he - I - is very fat, very insecure, and he's completely lost himself." –John Lennon_

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Lennon could hear it already as he neared the exit of yet another building that had unkindly housed them. Sounds of fame. Sounds echoing the exasperating, undesirably fake, lonely, miserable lifestyle that was fame. Sounds mirroring and repeatedly bringing to light, everything the rhythm guitarist saw himself as and strongly wished he no longer stood for. Reminders were everywhere he turned. The fans. The screams. The cries. The madness. The pandemonium. All of it, once capable of sending deep tingles of adrenaline dancing through the entire base of his spine, no longer held the desired effect on him any longer. The accompanying spine-tingling sensation of unwavering mortality once craved and coveted by the restless aspiring musician, simply wasn't doing the wonders it had once done. More so, it had grown overrated. It had deteriorated in the form of a thrill, becoming as much a part of his daily charade as was everything else. A mere part of the scenery. The wallpaper. It just was. Noise. A constant headache without the relief. And his initial instinct; his initial impulse, as had been for what seemed like years now, was to cringe. Recoil. Duck and cover. Maybe even to run from it all and never look back.

As discovered over the past several months of tiresome album recordings, movie-making, and endless touring, John was tired. Worn down. And not just physically. The mental wear and tear had been most unbearable of late, and worse, it was present all the time— eating at his insides; clawing at the inner walls of his skull. And there was never time to slip away from it, even for just several minutes at a time of coveted solitude. There was hardly the time to properly tend to one's self even, let alone think or clear one's mind. As irritating as it all was, John didn't see himself fit enough to even bother questioning the way of life anymore. There simply wasn't a point. He hardly bothered with the minor detail regarding why the Beatles could never seem to hear themselves while performing no matter how much they strained to be heard or whether or not their fans actually even appreciated the quality of their music. For all he knew, they— the Beatles, were just mere faces. Faces everyone seemed to worship for whatever stupid reason suited them. Faces that somehow stood apart from everything and everyone else, regardless of what levels of talent were attached. It was rather maddening. Disgusting. And when it all came down to the wire, the world of mental madness always seemed a mere matter of steps away as did the brink of self-destruction.

"It's your chosen way of life, John," Brian would tell him over and over again with that unwavering smile he was often capable of, especially when dealing with the likes of him, "You just cope with it. Learn to live with it if you haven't already."

In the admirably rose-colored eyes of Brian Epstein, everything just was. Regardless of the tarnished quality of the way of the universe, everything just was. When life knocked you down, you simply pulled yourself to your feet and kept going. Kept thriving. Kept coping. John assumed Brian knew what he was talking about. After all, he'd been forced to copewith the simple act of _being_ his entire life, being queer and all. Forced to cope, despite the undeniable and unforgiving fact that there was a world full of cold-hearted people that was far from all right with what he stood for. Coldhearted like John. Like what he'd predictably grown into. Perhaps, he should feel some sort of remorse on his own part for his own selfish wants and needs. There were far more significant and commanding problems harbored by others that exceeded his own petty ones by a long shot. Eppy was a prime example of that. But somehow even then, the rhythm guitarist couldn't bring himself to give even an ounce of a fuck. Never could. He was more than coldhearted. He was downright awful. As awful as he was miserable… and he could hardly stand it. One could only cope for so long.

They'd been interviewed individually and numerously that day; each Beatle condemned to one reporter at a time. As always, they'd found themselves tiresomely and unwillingly catering to the ongoing competition that was the formed rivalry between individual press groups. Groups, that somehow made unrespectable livings off of creating slander for exclusive papers and magazines fueled by nonstop malicious intentions allowing them to hone in on personal lives at limited costs. It was a corrupt way of life, really. A corrupt way to be. And what made it even more loathsome, was how these reporters would hide within a sugar-coated bubble at the mercy of the falsely-implied truth that they were doing the world good. The way they were trapped beneath the constant assumption that it was okay to pry and ask millions of irrelevant, mindless questions regarding someone's personal lifestyle, for their own benefit. Any normal person would be labeled a stalker in that sense, but these people… these people got paid to pry. Paid, to milk any unsuspecting victim of targeted interest dry of what they saw as vital information, and send them on their way like defective, worn-out items of useless variety.

In Lennon's honest opinion, it was bollocks. All of it. And this particular publicity event had been no different. Hours and hours of utter bollocks, was all it had been. It hadn't helped matters one bit that none of them had gotten much sleep the night before, as they'd gotten back late from some show they'd played at some formless place. It had all been a blur to him, but what else was new? Lately, it often was. Lately, it _always_ was. But blur or not, it was never enough to take away any from the increasing exhaustion that would, in the aftermath of all the madness, threaten to tear his muscles and mind to shreds. It was never enough to even begin to lessen the agonizing phenomenon that was forever stalking him from around every corner from which it would proceed to tackle him and smother him in all his moments of 'rest', as fleeting as they were. Time, would always slow down at times of the like. Slow down, to the point that he would inconveniently feel every bit of resulting excruciating misery; all of it stemming from the constancy of life in the fast lane. And the continuously nagging will to self-destruct would grow even stronger.

Always, the band would try and figure out what was wrong with him and allegedly attempt to piece him back together like it was their god-given right and he was fucking Humpty Dumpty or something. But they'd' never get anywhere as John would often in turn, slap on a fake grin, crack a joke reminiscent of his 'old self', and send them on their merry way as though it was all a misunderstanding and he was fine, after all. Sometimes, he'd blow up at them for simply caring and they'd slip away like skittish deer fleeing into the safety of the woods— away from Lumberjack Lennon who they feared just as much as they loved. No matter the consequences, Paul was always the least reluctant to flee. Somehow, he'd always had that uncanny ability to see through every one of his constructed guises and the facades. And he'd needlessly worry. He'd been worried about him for quite some time now, months at least. And if he kept on, the silly git would probably worry himself straight into the ground one day and for what? For the sake of one John Winston Lennon? The sorry sod who'd, just as soon, turn to the comforting hand of food, drugs, and alcohol rather than grow a set and own up to his problems? Daft git of a bassist would only end up hurting himself. And Lennon solemnly stood by that cold revelation.

The roar of the fans somehow managed to escalate from plain annoying to unbearably overwhelming, the moment the Beatles finally crossed through the main door into the late autumn sunshine. As per usual, the sight of them wasn't any more comforting than their sound had been. It was utter chaos, not that the Beatles weren't used to utter chaos. Chaos played a part everywhere they went with everything they did. But John's tolerance level in the face of it all was on a rapid and sporadic decline; _today_ especially. Whether or not he was used to it didn't matter.

A brisk wind blew from somewhere up north only adding to the generated irritation spawned by the yielded outcome of the day; rudely taking away from whatever bit of warmth the sun was straining to provide. He was tired. No, exhausted. John was exhausted and fed up and he just wanted to get hom— back to the stupid hotel they'd bloody be confined to until whatever stupid event would next drag them from their jail cell courtesy of Warden Epstein.

Beside him, McCartney grinned, waved, and batted those precious, enviable eyelashes as though someone had flipped a hidden switch somewhere on his body, activating the nauseating crowd-pleasing aspect of him that John could hardly get his mind to wrap around. Such a people-pleaser, he was. The only one by this stage in the life of the Beatles, who completely and devoutly bought into the nonstop hype the media would constantly provide. The only one, still willing to play the game, no questions asked. John couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why this bothered him as much as it did, these days. Perhaps, it was due to a simple change in mindset; a change yielded by how they were perceived by the world and their return perception of said world. In the beginning, they'd _all_ bowed down to the monster that was fame, not one of them able to help themselves any more than the last. After all, they'd only been a couple of nobodies from Liverpool struggling to forage their way and make necessary names for themselves. And they'd been rightfully equipped with the charm and charisma required, as well as the looks coveted by the public eye. So why wouldn't they have chosen to have a bit of fun with it? Why wouldn't they have intentionally chosen to bask in the standard splendor their fans had been generously tossing their way? With years and years worth of mindless obsession blindly being thrown at them in their honor, however, it was hardly necessary anymore. In fact, it was all sickening. Becoming more sickening all the time. What was it about McCartney that kept him so aloof and resilient? Even Ringo could feel the downward pull. George too. And John… he was tired. So goddamned fucking tired all the time. And this Paul, who refused to bend beneath the constant overbearing weight of the world, somehow only contributed to more exasperation. He sparkled like the sun in the presence of the fans, fed off the press like a bloody vampire straight out of Transylvania or wherever it was they came from. The press hardly deserved the best of McCartney with his endless charismatic charm… They hardly deserved the worst of him either. They hardly deserved the worst of any of them, though Lennon was certain he had a few choice words for the blinkered gits.

The _press_. John clenched his fists in a bit of surfacing anger. The _stupid_, _bloody_ _press _made up of lousy reporters who hadn't a clue what was going on or what was happening all about them in _real_ time. They were like ravenous sharks in a manner that proved them not much different from the most senseless of their fans. Only difference was, they were the annoying sort of shark that fed on whatever bit of information they could get their oversized jaws on, no matter how harmful… or how _hurtful_ it might be. They simply didn't care. John hung his head in a bout of despair as the already realized conclusion resurfaced within his brain for the hundredth time since leaving behind the series of tormenting interviews. _They simply didn't care_… The anger slipped from him and the rhythm guitarist found himself frowning as his haggard mind shifted into an uninvited replay of the most recent of interviews. _They simply didn't care_.

"_She's ready to meet with you now, John_," Brian had gently prodded, shaking him from what would've been sleep's grip had time allowed it, "_George's all set and you're next._"

In weak anticipation of what might as well have been his thousandth interview of the day, John had risen from his seat, walked into the intended room, and sat down; his eyes, having been crying out for sleep at the time, hidden behind its typical wall of cynicism. The smile had been there; nonetheless, heavy as it had been from the never-ending trials of the day. He'd extended a hand out to the reporter who'd regarded him with a smile of her own before taking it in a handshake. She'd introduced herself immediately, her tone of voice presenting itself as being overeager. Potentially fake. More likely fake. Like fame was.

Regardless, John had nodded in polite response to her introduction, "_I'm John Len_—"

Her eyes had been wild with recognition, the reporter, as she'd crudely interrupted him with blind excitement, "_I know exactly which one you are!" _she'd stated animatedly,_ "You're the fat Beatle!"_

And John had struggled to keep the shock of the statement from showing on his face. But the hurt had been imminent. The anger. He'd blinked and turned away, swallowing back a few choice words.

_"You know!" _the dumb tart had gone on to explain to him as though he hadn't a clue what was happening,_ "Just like how the others have nicknames! Paul's the cute one, George is the quiet one, and Ringo—"_

"_Quit talking like y'know all about them!_" John had growled, refusing to look her in the eye. She might see the hurt then. And it was satisfaction he just hadn't been able to let her have.

"_Have I offended you_?" she'd stupidly asked, "_There's been quite a bit of talk of your new image. Was it intentional or…" _her voice had trailed off as she caught sight of the menacing glare John remembered springing on her_,_ "_Not intentional, then_," she'd concluded.

John had forced his face into a leering smirk, "_I think we're done 'ere,_ _princess_," he'd coldly responded.

The tart's face had paled dramatically, "_But I've barely begun_!"

John's smirk had widened into a leering grin of complete insincerity; the only thing keeping him from lashing out at her, "_That's not me problem, love_."

"_Don't you understand? I'm only speaking from information I've heard_!" she'd tried to defend herself as though her words held the key of undoing the hurt she'd just caused; as though they were capable of justifying everything.

John hadn't wasted his time with an answer. He'd had enough. Impulsively clenching his fists, he'd gotten up. He'd been shaking all over by the time he'd sought out Brian and informed him that he was ready to leave.

"_But why, John? We've still got a bit of time to go_," the manager had calmly replied as though watching the members of his band squirm had all been but a simple game to him. He might've recognized the look in his eye by that point because his eyes had softened in instant concern. "_All right, John, if that's what you want. Lucky for you, we've squeezed in quite a bit today_."

Lucky. _Lucky_. What a stupid word. But John hadn't bothered with any unnecessary remarks as enough had been made at his expense. He'd merely turned away with a heated glare for the entire room and stormed towards the nearest exit. Once again, everything had turned into a blur… He lived in a blur.

"Coming, Johnny?" John looked up from his reverie, presently noting that Ringo had stopped beside him. Stopped. John frowned realizing right then that he too had stopped walking at some point. Stopped walking towards whatever bit of bliss the limo would have to offer them.

John's eyes were heavy with despair as he turned to regard the drummer. As though remembering they were windows to his soul, he quickly shifted his gaze in an alternative direction for a fleeting moment of composure and drew in a deep breath. When he brought his eyes back to Ringo, cynicism had regained its throne within them. "_Of course_ I'm coming!" he barked. He hadn't meant to sound so snippy. His mouth and mind seemed to have their own set course of action.

Ringo didn't recoil, however, only looked at him harder now as though he could see through him, "All right?" he asked, a bit of worry present in his blue eyes. He'd witnessed firsthand the change in personality as it had uninvitingly crept over his mate throughout the course of the day. The guitarist had been so mischievous and animated earlier on, much like his old self; it was hard to see him in current form. Now it seemed he was spontaneously entering an even deeper world of gloom as was the case more often than not as of late.

John hesitated slightly before responding. "Yeah." He continued on right then, desperate now more than ever to seek out solace away from the madness all about him. He was cracking up. He'd surely lose it like a madman if he continued on in prolonged exposure.

Ahead of him, George gave the occasional subdued wave typical of him, while Paul continued to mug for their fans like a bloody robot. The bassist radiated all the sugar in the world. So much that John was certain that if he kept at it, there'd be none left in the world. "Bloody 'ell, don't ye' ever get tired of it, McCartney?"

"Tired of what, John?"

John blinked in a bit of surprise as Paul turned towards him. Surely he hadn't meant to be heard. "Nothing. _Nothing_, Paul." Again he was coming off ill-tempered.

Paul furrowed his brow at him in confusion, "But—"

John plastered on a thick grin as though to disengage Paul's interest in him and joined in the act of his other mates, waving incessantly like a good little Beatle. Jumping through hoops like some kind of circus act— created by the hand of ringmaster Brian Epstein. This time, it felt even more fake. This. Everything. Because not one of these people knew a thing other than what their eyes were graced with on a daily basis. The fans, the press; none of them. They thought they knew him but they didn't have a clue. At this point, John wasn't even sure he even knew himself. Not anymore.

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**A/N: I'm sure a lot of you will be able to tell what famous and terribly degrading moment in Beatles history this story will be based on. Just so you know where I stand, I never once saw John Lennon as fat during his self-proclaimed 'Fat Elvis' days. He was a sexy beast if anything ;). PERFECT in every way.**

**And soo my loves, this is the part where you're more than welcome to provide feedback. You know the drill by now! :) ****Seeing how this is a brand new story in the making, I might add to this chapter at any point in the near future. Just a heads up.**


	2. Tell Me Why

**A/N: Well, I guess it's about time I updated this story :)). SOOO here it is. Chapter 2!**

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"Perhaps, we should wait for the others first, Geo," Paul pointed out, more so barked, as the band's youngest immediately and hastily gravitated towards the elevator buttons upon entering its metallic interiors.

"But 'm'starving now!" Harrison near-whined in response to Paul's ill-timed morality. He glanced impatiently towards the hotel's main entrance; still visible through the entryway of the elevator claimed by both him and Paul. John, Ringo, and Mal had yet to even enter the hotel's lobby, let alone the elevator he was so eager to launch up to their intended floor of destination in all his desperation. "Can't they catch up on their own time?"

Paul settled himself in the elevator doorframe, cleverly using his entire backside to keep the double doors from closing them in, "I somehow have the feeling they wouldn't fancy being left behind," he replied idly.

George glared at the bassist; outwardly fuming at the inconvenience of his inconsiderately staged 'sit-in'. It took everything within him to keep from shoving him out the elevator door and taking off towards the Beatles' suite, himself. By this point of the day, he was past starvation and well on his way to ravenous. Well into the undesired shakiness that could hardly wait to claim him whenever he went long periods without a bite to eat. He was pretty sure that his stomach was beginning to devour itself. Whenever hunger escalated so drastically, he was bound to be a force to reckon with. Bound to overstep boundaries in the least rational of ways. "Why not?" he sharply inquired, "At the rate everyone's going, I'll die of starvation waiting around. I 'aven't eaten a thing since brekky, Paul… 'S'not right!"

"We're _all_ hungry, Geo!" Paul sternly responded with a roll of the eyes indicative of growing frustration, "You and that bottomless pit y'call a stomach aren't the only ones so do yerself a favor and bloody come off it. It's getting a bit old!"

George reluctantly backed off from pressing any buttons and settled his back against the elevator wall furthest from Paul, "Yeah? Well, so am I…" came his sardonic response. He hastily crossed his arms over his chest in a sulking manner, "I've waited all bloody day listening to the lot of ye' bickering sods. I believe I'm owed whatever bloody bit of solace I can get me hands on."

"Language, Geo."

Laughter filled the silence that followed and both George and Paul turned to see John and a clearly-amused Ringo finally making their long-accounted for presence known.

"_What_?" George sharply threw at them, the tightness of his voice indicating the flow of his irritation.

"_Language_!" John repeated with a belittling, condescending smirk, reminiscent of his own unspoken troubles. His voice held a tone lacking kindness or even humor as it would often portray when goading their youngest about the lax use of profanity he'd come out with when miffed.

"Piss off, Lennon!" George snapped, glaring at him in a huff, "Y'know damned well me stomach's not used to the kind of torment y'sods 'ave been carelessly putting it through!"

Lennon held his smirk in place, the typical expression quickly growing colder all the time, "Well, the only current _torment_ stems from yer cakehole, love," he crudely shot back, "and by all means, me ears aren't entirely sensitive to it either."

George continued to scowl at him while Paul and Ringo, finding plentiful humor in the statement, chuckled.

"If the press could see ye' now," John deadpanned, pausing thoughtfully beside Paul in the elevator's entryway. "Perhaps, they wouldn't be so quick to label ye' the 'quiet Beatle'."

"Jus' shut yer gob and get yer arse in 'ere, Lennon," George growled, blatantly remaining un-amused in the face of his abrasive humor.

Paul and Ringo's chuckles increased in volume.

John turned to them, his expression only darkening at their carefree tittering. "What's so funny?! I'm making a bloody point!" he sharply affirmed, "The bloody press can't see a thing beyond what lies at our surfaces!"

"Well, I'd like to give them a little credit," Paul ventured slyly, a mischievous grin gracing his face, "As far as I'm rightly concerned, I _am_ the cute one 'ere and rightfully so."

Lennon turned towards the bassist, fixing him with a somewhat disgruntled scowl, "Must be nice— getting by on good looks alone, _Macca_," he brazenly retorted.

The self-pleased smile tumbled from Paul's face. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he asked, his eyes widening in a mixture of instant surprise and hurt.

John shrugged, his gaze alarmingly derisive as it met up with the offense in his mate's face, "_Nothing_. Jus' watch out fer that ego of yers, _darling_. Things like that tend to bite ye' in the aft end when yer least expect it."

Paul flared, his hurt pride evolving into anger, "Well, yer one to talk, John!" he retaliated, finally coming to his own defense.

John scoffed, apathy ruling his features. "Am I?" he remarked bitterly, "I _know_ I 'ave an ego, love. Only difference is, I don't try and hide it behind a pretty face."

"Like ye' 'ave one to 'ide behind," Paul countered, his anger beginning to surge beyond his control.

John's mouth dropped slightly in a bit of hurt of his own, before blind fury moved in, tightening every feature of his face in the most threatening of ways, "Why, y'pompous, self-centered little—" was all he cared enough to get out before he impulsively drew back a fist. Like a dog on a chain, he was suddenly yanked back courtesy of Ringo who had deftly managed to get a firm grip on both his arms. John thrashed about wildly for a moment before suddenly giving up, the fight draining instantaneously from his face. "Get off me y'fucking git," he growled, his tense muscles going lax in spite of the fire in his words.

"Can y'control yerself?" Ringo calmly asked him before daring to convey to his words.

John abruptly shook away the remainder of Ringo's grip. "Gang up on Lennon," he muttered glumly, "Everyone does." He straightened himself up and turning away, retreated to a corner of the elevator in sought out isolation. He was shaking so much he could hardly walk the short distance in a straight line. As he carelessly dropped himself to a squatting position, he suddenly looked sadder and more distraught than he had all day.

Paul felt immediate remorse branching from the cold uttered words that had nearly led to what might have been the scuffle of a lifetime, "John—" he began, making a hesitant move towards him. Forgetting he was supposed to be holding the elevator door open, it quickly shut behind him, prompting George to hurriedly press the buttons corresponding with the floor of their suite. The elevator began to lift instantaneously leaving behind Mal, wherever he was.

Paul didn't react or even seem to notice as his gaze and accompanying attention remained attached to the miserable form of none other than his best mate in a form of solid fixation. As he drew closer, however, slowly and carefully with all the caution of a wildlife tracker, Lennon's raw sorrow on display went out like a broken light, anger absorbing it once more as eye contact was made. "Sod off, McCartney and leave me the bloody 'ell alone!" he snarled, much warning present in his voice.

Paul stopped in his tracks despite the duly noted fact that the rhythm guitarist's response was much weaker than it could've been. Desperate to know what he'd done to get the treatment he was currently getting from his best mate; he sternly held his ground, his arms crossing adamantly over his chest, "What the fuck's yer problem, Lennon?" he demanded almost plaintively, "You've been attacking me nonstop ever since we've left the bloody interview fer chrissake!"

"So intellect _can_ coexist with good looks," John grimly muttered turning to look away from him, "_Another thing _overlooked by the useless press. Bloody idiots, the lot of 'em."

Paul quizzically arched an eyebrow at him, beginning to sense a vague method to the madness he was currently tossing about, "This is about the press, then?" he found himself asking hesitantly.

"Thought I told ye' to _sod off_!" John grumbled, lifting his gaze towards him once again in the form of a halfhearted glare. "Hard of 'earing as well, are ye'?"

"A reporter say something to ye'?" Paul pressed on, ignoring his mate's repeated attempts at verbal assault.

John chuckled offhandedly from his seat on the floor, the laugh sounding oddly hollow to Paul's ears. "They're _always_ saying things, Macca."

"Well, yes… but—"

John quickly broke eye contact, his restless mannerisms blatantly indicating he had no interest on keeping the conversation rolling. "'S'not important. _Piss off_ and mind yer business 'fore I carry on with the arse-kicking I was about to lay into ye'."

Paul blinked at his sudden change of heart but retreated, nonetheless, deciding it was best not to continue on with his investigative charade by this point; unpredictable as Lennon could be.

The elevator dinged unexpectedly and the double doors opened, drawing a necessary distraction, as well as, awakening the realization that the elevator was no longer at the hotel's ground level but several floors up rather. _Harrison, no doubt_, McCartney prematurely concluded with a bit of annoyance. Somehow, the lead guitarist had managed to get around him to reach his intended goal. "Where's Mal?" Paul demanded, his eyes zeroing on the culprit responsible.

George turned to gaze at him, his eyes mirroring all the false innocence in the world as he proceeded to shrug.

"Taking the stairs, I guess," John lazily offered in his place with a profound lack of interest in the subject altogether. He pulled himself to his feet and shoving past his mates, exited out into the hall, the rest filing out behind him.

George grinned cheekily at their bassist as he passed him by, eager to be the first to their suite, "A little slow on the uptake, are we, Paul?" he lightly asked, his mood having significantly rebounded by the nearing promise of edible glory.

Paul returned his grin with a devious and smug smirk. "I hate to break it to ye, Geo but… yer crafty lil' move didn't do a whole lot of good," he nonchalantly responded, "We _still_ 'ave to wait fer Mal, y'know. He's got our key to the suite, after all!"

"Y'_can't_ be serious…" George moaned.

Paul laughed at George's reaction, "Serves y'right fer being so impatient," he playfully chided.

"Sod off, McCartney!" George growled, settling a hand on his stomach as it chose right then to announce its own thoughts on the turn of events. "Anyone know how to pick a lock?"

Paul and Ringo laughed and all fell silent as the band began their trek down the long hallway towards the doorway of their suite.

"What do y's'ppose is taking Mal so long?" Ringo proclaimed after a while, breaking the advanced silence that had befallen them, "He said he'd be with us shortly jus' moments before I came in." He glanced down at the watch hugging his wrist. "Something or someone must've slowed him down."

"And what of it, Sherlock?" John sharply muttered, turning to stare the drummer down, "He was a big boy last I checked…" he faltered momentarily as though to re-gather his thoughts, "or would y'rather hold his hand through this most difficult of times?"

Paul shook his head in regards to the rhythm guitarist's unnecessarily extreme overreaction. Rather than address him on his sporadic behavior as was his initial instinct, he decided to casually carry on with the source of conversation Ringo had been trying to infuse, "Well, I suppose he should be along any moment now, I'd think, Rings…" he responded slowly, wary eyes discreetly probing John all the while, "Might take a while considering the fact that he either has to wait fer the elevator or take the stairs… courtesy of a certain _someone_!" He glared at the back of George's head.

"Regardless, I'm bloody knackered as is," John responded, wasting no time on asserting his own opinion, "So he'd better hurry up. I've got an irreversible date with me bed that begins the moment I enter the suite." He then added with a bit of a sneer, "Hope none of y'sods plan on needing me fer the rest of the evening."

"But aren't ye' hungry?" Paul asked, still outwardly baffled by Lennon's cryptic behavior.

"No more than ye' are intrusive," John retorted snidely.

Paul recoiled once more. _Jesus Christ_. This was getting bloody ridiculous. Perhaps, John was upset with him after all. But _why_? Did he even want to know by this point? The way Lennon was carrying on, any insight alone might kill him. "Are… you… upset with me, John?" he hesitantly blurted out.

John turned on him so fast, Paul was certain he was about to fall prey to some sort of verbal abuse. But just as suddenly, the rhythm guitarist softened and all traces of impulsive exasperation melted away. "No…" he sighed.

"Then what's the matter, John?" Paul prodded, "Are… you … all right?"

John looked as though he was about to reveal something but he quickly thought better of it, his demeanor changing yet again, "I'm fine, y'fairy. Go bother someone else."

Despite the smile he flashed following his statement, he somehow looked mentally tormented. Painfully despondent… It was all in his eyes. '_Something's wrong_…' Paul concluded. Though what it was, he didn't know. All he knew was that it didn't take a psychiatrist to be able to see past his charade. "Are ye' _sure_ yer—"

"Great," George took the time to impatiently butt in from his distant settlement in front of their suite's locked door. "_He's_ fine, _yer_ fine, we're _all_ fine. Now, does someone know how to pick a lock or what? If I wait fer Mal, I might die waiting…"

"I told ye', George!" Paul snapped, momentarily tearing his eyes off John so he could fix him with a glare, "We're _waiting_ fer Mal!"

"Waiting, waiting… _always_ waiting fer someone…" George muttered.

"Yer a selfish bastard when yer hungry, y'know that?" Ringo laughed.

"Well good," the lead guitarist responded indignantly, "Perhaps, you'll think better of depriving me of food next time."

"_We_ didn't deprive you of anything!" Paul responded in a fit of incredulity, "Jesus Christ, Harri!"

"I'm about to deprive 'im of something all right," John challenged, his eyes narrowing in growing aggravation. He pushed past Paul and made his way to the door, roughly casting George aside. Within a matter of seconds, he had the door open.

"John Winston Lennon!" Ringo exclaimed in disbelief, his voice going high-pitched to mirror a mother scolding her son.

"He _did_!" George proclaimed in pure elation, "Ta, Johnny!" He was the first one into the suite, his legs carrying him swiftly towards the kitchen.

"Mal will 'ave yer head," Paul admonished with a shake of the head as he made a move to close the door after everyone had entered.

"Do I look worried?" John responded, aiming a cheeky grin at him. Again, his eyes were contradicting; telling stories all their own that weren't related to the subject at hand.

Paul frowned, "Well, not quite… though y'do look—"

John dismissively waved him off. "I'm gon' catch up on me sleep…" he interrupted, making it quite obvious that he wasn't interesting in hearing how he currently looked. "Tell Geo to keep quiet should he find the need to intrude on me privacy." He turned his back on the bassist and had only taken but a few steps in the direction of his bedroom before the sounds of a key in the lock of the suite's main entrance caught his ears. Paul too, stopped to listen. "Blimey, it's Mal!" he apprehensively announced after a while.

John brushed off the bassist's obvious concerns, "Settle down, would ye'? What, y'think he's gon' punish us? Confine us to our bedrooms? Aren't we pretty much _under_ house arrest?"

Paul snickered. "We are, aren't we?"

The door opened right then revealing, as expected, their road manager. The look on his face justified Paul's initial concerns to a tee. "How'd y'boys get in?" he demanded, his eyes settling on John's first before gravitating to Paul.

"Magic," John quipped, "I'm a wizard… with _doors_…"

"Yer a wizard with trouble, as well," Mal muttered, zeroing his gaze on the rhythm guitarist, "I should've known y'were the one behind this!"

John rolled his eyes. "'S'not me fault y'took so bloody long," he responded irritably, "We're bloody knackered and don't entirely fancy waiting around all day… Ask Geo."

Mal shook his head impatiently, his gaze moving towards the kitchen where quite the clatter could be heard. Both George and Ringo were what easily could've been estimated as waist-deep in grub. "Never mind. I'll deal with it later," the road manager mumbled, stepping further into the suite and moving to close the door behind him. "I'm afraid there are more pressing matters at hand."

"Like what?" Paul asked.

Mal sighed. "I got caught up speaking with hotel security which is actually what ended up delaying me. Turns out, there have been some reporters sniffing about the vicinity without proper permission."

"_What_?" both Paul and Ringo chorused, their voices coming together from opposite ends of the room.

John bristled visibly, the increased tension in his body catching Paul's peripheral vision. Alarmed, the bassist turned to him with questioning eyes, "All right?" he whispered.

John nodded with a bit of a grunt and turned away from him, his gaze resettling on the direction of his and George's shared bedroom.

Paul furrowed his brow in a bit of rising confusion but quickly brushed off the entire occurrence. "Well, where are they now?" he asked.

"They've been removed from the premises," Mal revealed, "Hotel security, however, has been elevated."

"Wonder what they wanted," George outwardly mused through a mouthful of scone.

"What do y'think, _genius_?" John snapped at him, "What does the press _ever_ want? _Cookies_? _Lemonade_?"

"Now, John—" Mal started to reprimand.

His words immediately fell on deaf ears as the blatantly troubled rhythm guitarist once again, proceeded to turn away from all of them, clearly no longer in a state of listening. "'_Quiet Beatle_' in deed," he was busy muttering to himself, a permanent scowl planted firmly on his face as he started away en route to his room, "_Clueless_ is more like it…"

Paul sighed as he allowed his eyes to follow his mate, wonderment regarding his recently acquired state of being, continuing to flood his mind. It was more than obvious now that the rhythm guitarist was in some kind of altered state of sulking. Playful prankster Lennon had been carelessly left behind somewhere only to be replaced with his cynical and low-spirited other half. It was possible he was just knackered and grumpy as the rest of them were. While there was probably truth in that, Paul, in one way or another, couldn't bring himself to the full certainty that it was entirely the case. With John being the way he was, he hated to think that something out of the ordinary could actually be wrong with him. Such mishaps when they occurred within that twisted mind of his would usually spiral quickly out of control before they'd even begin to show the slightest signs of fixing themselves. And Paul, he'd worry. He was always worried, though he could never quite figure out why. Perhaps, it was the state of mind Lennon had unwittingly succumbed to over the past several months. The bassist had been keeping tabs on the steady decline seemingly overcoming him for a good portion of time now. He'd been drinking more, smoking more, sleeping more, eating more, and overall he was by some means, much more subdued than Paul had ever seen him. He'd lost his fire… His spark… His fight. He was tired. Tired of a lot of things. Tired of the lifestyle that accompanied fame. And because of all of it combined, every little tribulation, no matter how small, was always quick to consume him; bringing him down to the dark depths of anger, frustration, and if powerful enough, self-destruction. Paul could count on several fingers how many times the rhythm guitarist had nearly succeeded on drinking himself to death over something going on in his life he wasn't in a state of handling. He solemnly hoped that whatever current problem that may or may not be bothering his mate, wasn't strong enough or significant enough to trigger the worries already fighting to work their way out from his heart.

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**A/N: Hope it's up to my usual standards of writing-whatever that may be! Please review! PLEASE?**


	3. The Word

**A/N: Yikes, it's been SOO long! I hope everyone is still willing to tune into my work despite the long grueling wait I've cruelly put on you all! I haven't abandoned any of my stories and updates, as slow as they are, ARE on the way. Work will cut in quite a bit, but I'll try and do my part and keep updating as regularly as I can 'cause I'm back, baby, and itching to get back into a writing groove! Bear with me! -Naturelover422**

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John felt sick as he allowed his eyes to read, re-read, and re-read yet again, the ominous black print leaping out at him from the very page of the newspaper he now grasped between shaking fingers. Somehow, word about a simple physic al change had gotten out and the press, as usual, was on top of it. They'd found out as they often would, went public with it, and now as a lovely result, the world was on top of it, as well. Together, they all knew. _All_ knew what he'd become. What he was _still_ becoming. What John Lennon truly and undeniably was. A _monster_. A horrible _kind_ of monster, living a horrible kind of life. The _worst_ kind of monster. The bane of his own existence. And worse, there wasn't a thing he could do about it. There wasn't a thing he could do to change this. To reverse its effects. To reverse its damage.

The choice in wording was cruel; the words themselves, taunting the targeted rhythm guitarist, as they commanded his reluctant attention; successfully fulfilling their goal of cramming his head with its slander. Over and over again, they worked together to scream out in black magnified letters, their shared message of menace; to unleash upon him, their hurtful emotion-seeking missiles of propaganda. "Fat Beatle…" John Lennon, the 'fat Beatle'. Fat. Fatty, fat, fat. _Fat_. Fat John. Only, it wasn't propaganda. Not quite. Propaganda were half truths. Misinformations… And he wasn't _not_ fat… _was_ he? Of course he wasn't. _Not fat_ was a label for his band mates. _Not fat _was the complete opposite of what he saw of himself on a daily basis. The complete opposite of the discouraging mess that had claimed him for new identity. He knew _already_ what the world thought of him whenever they took the time to scope him out. He didn't _need_ a written broadcast to tell him. They saw the fat Beatle. The sorry sap that to them, was an elephant in size when compared to the likes of dainty Paul McCartney and no less than the size of a whale when compared with a bony George Harrison and a pint-sized Ringo Starr. Who was he kidding?

'_You are fat, Lennon,_' his mind freely stated, abruptly taking over his free-range thoughts without much invitation to do so,'_A regular, soddin' ham. Look at y'trying to accept brutal reality in spite of yer bruised ego_… _It's no wonder Cyn hates the sight of ye'._' He could almost hear them laughing; the world. Not with him, as he would often lead them to doing with his sometimes childish antics and dry, often cynical-inspired way with words; but at him. _At_ him. _Laughing_ at him. For the first time in what seemed like a history of histories, the rhythm guitarist was succumbing rapidly and unwillingly to the laughingstock position. And not in a way that he had any control over.

Heaving a sigh, John finally freed his hands from the edge of the slandered mess and allowed the newspaper to tumble carelessly to the floor. Laugh at him, will they? He'd show _them_. He was John Lennon for chrissake. John the musician… the rhythm guitarist… the songwriter. He hadn't come all this way to be reduced in the blink of an eye to '_Fat Beatle: John Lennon… Fatty, fat, fat Beatle, John…_' He was greater than that. And just as well, he could easily force himself to face and rise above anything and everything the world threw at him. Even a bit of extra… weight… and all traces of resulting humiliation…

With a bit of renewed willpower, the rhythm guitarist allowed his eyes to confirm the proposed truth about himself. He gazed down first at his tell-tale stomach, his hands automatically gravitating towards some of the intrusive rolls protruding out from beneath the snug waistline of his pants. They jiggled slightly at his touch, like a vengeance-filled gelatin. He gazed next at his betraying, pudgy hands, at how much his fingers had swelled over the course of this past year; a year that had been filled to the brim with ongoing stress, depression, overeating, and overdrinking. The results were unflattering. If he kept carrying on as he'd been, he'd soon have a hard time finding his dick beneath the layers of fat embalming what had once been his smooth and toned stomach. Never mind his dick, he'd never catch sight of his feet again! He was disgusting. Completely repulsive. How was it he had allowed himself to get so bloody carried away? How could he not have taken proper notice enough to stop this horrific transformation from becoming the norm? Regardless, he had seen enough. He didn't need to see anymore dead giveaways courtesy of his stupid body. He was a pig. End of story. It was no wonder, the press thought so."'S'no wonder the world does, as well…" John murmured this last part aloud with ample dejection. Bloody fucking hell. There it was in black and white. It couldn't get much more realistic than that.

"Say something, Johnny?"

The rhythm guitarist looked up in slight surprise as George took a seat at the kitchen table across from him. Quickly regaining what was left of his shattered composure, he sprang a heated glare on the lead guitarist all but liking his unexpected intrusion, not to mention nosy nature. "What's it to ye', Harrison?" he grumbled.

His mind long since on to other things, George failed to notice his band mate's impulsive actions or his dark and brooding mood. "What's fer brekky?" he asked lightly as though all was right in the world. His hungry eyes were already tearing apart the kitchen in search of all things edible. "I could go fer some pancakes… or maybe some eggs and hash…"

His words trailed off as John hastily shoved his chair back and promptly removed himself from the table. "Why should I know what's fer brekky?" he snapped mockingly, "'Cause I'm fat?"

George shrunk back slightly in his seat, his eyes refocusing on John in pronounced astonishment, "What are ye' on about? I jus' thought since yer the first one up today, you'd know of some grub, 's'all."

"Well, I don't!" was Lennon's indignant response.

George frowned, unable to fathom what was unraveling here at the rhythm guitarist's temperamental hand, "Well… take it easy, mate… It was only an assumption, y'know…"

"And a _stupid_ one at that! Do the world a bloody favor from now on, Harrison, and keep yer assumptions to yerself!"

"But…"

"But _nothing_." John was gone in an instant, any appetite he may have awoken with completely vanquished by the day's unwanted assertion of trials and tribulations. Somehow, though, he wasn't overly disturbed by his diminished will to eat. It was reason enough not to have to stuff his face like the pig that he knew himself to be. He might never eat again. And the press, they'd find something new to glorify. He was sure of it.

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Despite an overhanging cloud of confusion left behind courtesy of John's latest outburst, George found himself shrugging with a lack of concern as an aftermath of silence befell the kitchen. Another day, another classic Lennon mood swing, he'd automatically figured. Typical. It would've been weird without one at any given point of the day, to the say the least. As per usual, the world would keep on turning and life would go on. The lead guitarist rose from the seat he'd initially flopped down in and went about the kitchen hunting for the one thing that could easily surpass as food. It was obvious that Mal had yet to replenish their weekly supply of groceries so the pickings presented to him this morning were painfully slim. By the looks of it, choices were limited to either cereal or… cereal…

"Morning, Geo…"

George turned to look behind him as Paul entered the kitchen, a sleepy but friendly smile aimed in his direction, "First one up?"

George returned his attention to the box of cereal he'd been about to zero in on prior to the provided distraction. "Nope, John was in 'ere a little bit ago, but he seems to 'ave disappeared fer the time being," he responded casually, "Left in a bit of a huff, really."

"Oh?" Paul strolled further into the kitchen and was about to grab a seat at the table when he noticed the recently discarded newspaper on the floor nearby. "Oh and I see he couldn't take the time to clean up after himself beforehand, the lazy git…" He hastily approached the mess for a closer look, "…Who else would leave behind such a bloody, disorderly mess?" With an added grunt of disgust, the bassist bent down to collect the large scattered sheets of creased paper and proceeded to piece them together in the order he assumed they had come in. "…What is this? Today's news?" Upon scanning the first page for answers, his eyes landed on a particular article supported by the band's name in boldfaced letters. '_The Beatles Provide a Look of Life on the Road'_, he read aloud with a bit of piqued, casual interest. "'Ey, there's an article in 'ere about us," he announced after a while.

George's subdued reaction portrayed all but captivation, "Yeah? When isn't there?" he mumbled disinterestedly. He finally grasped his chosen box of cornflakes having finalized his decision and made his way towards the table, setting it down in front of him, "Fancy some cornflakes?" he asked, turning to face Paul once more.

"Yeah… That would be lovely, Geo," Paul muttered, semi-distractedly.

George watched for a bit with mild interest as the bassist proceeded to lay the newspaper out flat across the surface of the table next to his box of cornflakes, obviously intrigued by the article. "What's it about?" he asked finally, not sure if he even really cared.

Paul's eyes working a million miles a minute, continued to skim the page, "Yesterday's series of interviews…" he responded slowly. He started to say more when a specific grouping of words caught his eye mid-scan, "Bloody 'ell…" he murmured instead.

"What?" George asked, crossing the kitchen again in search of some cereal bowls.

Paul lifted his gaze and settled them on his younger mate, "Do you know if John's read this yet?"

"How should I know?" George demanded impatiently, "I'm not his bloody keeper, y'know. What is it?"

"Bloody press referred to Lennon as the 'Fat Beatle!'" Paul frowned.

Again, George shrugged, "As usual, they don't know left from right. _We_ know that's not true and I'm right certain John should know it as well. If anything, I bet 'e's laughing in their faces rather than off crying about it."

Paul couldn't seem to detach the frown from his face. He'd noticed something about Lennon lately. His self-confidence level hadn't been the greatest these days.

"Quit dwelling on it," George scolded, "You'll only end up making a mountain out of a molehill. Put that thing away and eat something."

'_What if the mountain's already a molehill_?' Paul couldn't help thinking. The bassist relented, nonetheless, and finally folded the paper back up like originally intended. Casting it to a corner of the table distant from them, he grabbed at the box of cornflakes and proceeded to pour himself a bowl.

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**A/N: It's amazing how powerful words can be, especially when used as a weapon. Let this be a lesson to you all! :). ANYwhoo, hope this wasn't too much of an eyesore! May mess with this chapter in the near future. Until then, stay tuned for chapter 4 and possibly a long-accounted for update on 'Follow the Sun' :)).**


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